


Not a Drop to Drink

by Tzigane (Tzigrrl)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2020-01-07 15:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzigrrl/pseuds/Tzigane
Summary: Spike, looking for whiskey, finds hope in an Irish kind of way.





	Not a Drop to Drink

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer: Mr. Whedon and Company own all. I just borrow for little adventures. Grrr. Arrgh.]  
> Do NOT POST ANYWHERE without my explicit written permission.

February 2001  
"Bloody holidays," muttered Spike.  
It didn't seem like he could make his way through town without being accosted by decorations for some holiday that was still weeks away.  
“Went from horrid Christmas songs to bright red hearts overnight. And none of the hearts are the right shape and DEFINITELY not the right color unless you’re talking about Gorsuch Demons and those… yeah, that’s a spot-on shade of red for those wanks.”  
Spike continued his one-person conversation as he trudged through the cold streets of Sunnydale.  
He felt that the weather this winter seemed to be chillier and wetter than last winter, and continued to be glad that not being affected by the cold was a vampire perk. The wet, on the other hand, was annoying. At least the rain wasn’t acid or holy water.  
“Ha. Bloody hell. Good one there, mate,” he praised himself.  
The only reason he had left the crypt was to get a refill on booze and snacks. The all-night market had a nice selection of whiskeys and always seemed to have Weetabix on hand.  
“You’d think it wasn’t a popular cereal!” Spike said, insulted by the idiocy of Americans.  
Taking the collar of his black leather duster and pulling it up over the back of his neck, with his head tucked down against the wind, he walked forward on the dead quiet side street and quietly rushed into the market’s side door.  
Shaking his head as he looked around, he was accosted by a ridiculous bright display of green. Shamrocks everywhere, displaying prices, offers of specials on chips and cheese whiz and all things American.

Tasteless, he thought to himself, blinking at the bright colors. Is it even March?  
He was pretty sure it was still February.  
Bother that. Spike shook off the distracting thoughts and cold water as he came upon the liquor shelving only to see even more of the green shamrocks. Here there were even strings of the damned things hanging from the ceiling that he had to bat away to get closer to the shelf only to find no Jack Daniels! None, not a single bottle! Not the small ones he would sometimes slip into his duster pockets, not the flasks that never held enough, not the regular size good for holding in his hand. Not even the large ones with the handle for the extra special have to get Buffy out of my head nights that seemed to be happening more and more frequently.  
“Well, then. A Scotch. I usually save those for more special nights, but this appears to be turning into one of them,” he said while rubbing his hands together and scanning the shelves. Only to find none. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Kaput. No Scotch.  
“What is it with these bloody Americans! This isn’t even an Irish holiday, and yet all I see is Irish whiskey!”  
God, I hate Sunnyhell.  
There was definitely a lot more Irish whiskey than usual on the shelves, which was not Spike’s favorite beverage by far. Made without the lovely peat used in Scotch whiskey, it was smoother, lighter and didn’t have the strong flavors that made it worth tasting as a vamp. American whiskey always did for the day-to-day. Sweeter than anything from the Isles, it was round and easy to swig.  
But an Irish was never Spike’s choice. Here in California, there was quite a bit of Bushmills, some Jameson’s, and of course, Redbreast. But in his travels across the country in the past few decades, he’d see Tullamore Dew, Powers, and Connemara, the other usual imported brands. There, in a corner display, was a row of stylish bottles for Michael Connelly Whiskey, an Irish no longer even produced. The name made him remember a rip-roaring night or six at the Palace Bar with Angelus when he was still trying to impress the Poof. But wait, what was that, over the corner, was it - it was! A bottle of Green Spot! He hadn’t seen that since…  
February 1933  
Spike was in Dublin, Ireland, looking for Drusilla. He was sure she had traveled there looking for Angelus, wanting to be with her sire. No, needing him, damnit. They had planned to move through Europe and make it to Chicago for the World’s Fair, but she’d run off when he was out feeding on the local barmaids three nights ago.  
Now he was roaming the streets in a snowstorm, looking for her and easy kills. The town was big enough that there had to be some idiots wandering through the snow. He could pick off two, three, maybe even four, and the icy corpses could be blamed on this hell of a storm, with no one looking for vampire bites.  
With his brown hair tight under a brown fedora with black silk trim, and a lined dark brown trench coat collar surrounding his face, he looked like a well-to-do man rushing home in the storm. No one would be the wiser that the hat and coat came from the cloakroom of one of those places where everyone spoke German. Those places seemed to be multiplying as more Austrians left Europe for safer climes.  
Ah, there you are, Spike thought to himself as he saw a man, likely drunk, stumble out of a door and into an alley. Likely to relieve himself, but Spike thought he might make the draining more permanent as he quietly entered the alley.  
****  
Feeling much refreshed, Spike walked a block until he heard lovely music coming up stairs from a basement. The music was a delightful combination of the violin and piano and that voice. It was beautiful and uplifting for such a cold and dark night.  
The words drifted up to Spike. “…somewhere a voice is calling, calling for me.” The man’s voice was so artful; he could be one of the Tuatha de Danann. A part of the vampire responded deeply to the sound; a part that Spike didn’t really want to think about. So he quickly made his way in to find out more.  
Wandering into the duskily lit pub, he saw other men dressed like he was, looking for respite from the harsh cold outside. Removing his outwear, he fit right in with his double-breasted grey pinstripe three-piece suit and tightly knotted polka-dot tie. He was particularly happy with the brown boots and was thrilled that there was finally comfortable footwear around.  
The music was coming from three men on the stage, where the singer was sitting and sipping from a jar between lyrics. His voice was a true tenor, but you could hear the wear and age and see it on his face. The whiskey seemed to be more of a draw for him than the crowd.  
He walked up to the bar and found a space between two other men. He was about to order when he was slapped on the back from behind.  
“Do I know ya?” the stranger asked.  
“Sure if I don’t know,” replied Spike with his best Irish lilt learned from that idiot Grandsire of his.  
“Well, I should know ya,” said the tipsy man. He was a few inches taller than Spike, with handlebar mustaches and a round face. His hair must have been nicely pomaded earlier in the day, but now was a bit droopy over his large forehead. He wobbled slightly as he poured Spike a drink from his bottle. “I’m celebrating, so now I know ya! You can celebrate along with me and the boys.”  
“Gratefully, I will,” replied Spike, trying to figure out how many he could take on to drain that night. He finally shook his head with regret, as he knew he needed to go elsewhere and continue his search for Dru.  
The whiskey, however, was perfect. The bottle had a Green Spot on it, and Spike thought it might be the best whiskey he’d ever had. He tried to grab for more, but the stranger had turned away with the bottle in hand, slobbering and talking to his other mates.  
“You know, Spike,” said the young lad on his left, "Irish monks in the sixth century took themselves off on a little trip to the Middle East thinking they were going to learn how to distill perfumes. Instead, they came back with the recipe for good Irish sipping whiskey. They called it Uisce Beatha, the Water of Life.”  
“Who are you and how the hell do you know my name,” yelled Spike over the music. He took a closer look at the man and realized he didn’t fit with the daydream. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket much more suited to the late 20th century.  
“Easy, buddy. I’m just here to help. My name is Doyle. I used to work with Angel.”  
Spike sneered. “That’s not a recommendation in my book. Wait, Angel? That’s not now, is it? That’s later? What the hell are you doing in my daydream?”  
With both hands held up, trying to buy some more time, Doyle pleaded his case. “Look, I’m here because things are changing. The world is changing. In the future, it’s not just a hellmouth. It’s about demons, and witchcraft, climate change, and earthquakes, not to mention ridiculous candidates in American elections. It all speaks to threats beyond what the Powers-That-Be thought you would face.”  
“And I should care, why?”  
“Why? Because it means you get the girl.”  
Spike lowered his eyes. “The girl….” His eyes waiting for Doyle to clarify who he was talking about.  
“Yes, Spike, Buffy. The woman you love.”  
Spike pulled himself away from the bar and over to the small alcove that held the toilets and let himself think for a minute. This was one hell of a hallucination he was coming up with. Hadn’t he been going to the store to GET whiskey? He couldn’t be that drunk already.  
The young man appeared next to Spike, by what means, the vampire wasn’t sure. The Irish pub disappeared, and it was just the two of them talking in what seemed to be a cave. Spike’s duster was back on his shoulders, and the place felt warm and humid and oddly familiar.  
“What do you know about Buffy? And why would you help me if you worked with Angelus?”  
Doyle took a deep breath. “Look, I died working with Angel, for the greater good. And that was okay for a while. But I’m a meddler, always have been, and I wasn’t restful. So the PTB offered me a job. I work as a cajoler; I help people discover their true calling. With most, it’s not obvious; I just nudge them along. But you, you’re a special case.”  
“How so, meddler?”  
“You have the ability to save the world and Buffy’s life, more than once.”  
“I what?!” Spike exclaimed. He wanted to believe the black-haired leprechaun look-alike, but it was a bit too much of what he wanted to believe it could be true.  
“Okay, Lucky Charms, why should I believe you?”  
“You shouldn’t,” Doyle said, with a smug smile on his face. “But you get what you want if you play along. What’s the worst that could happen?”  
“A stake, you git.”  
“And what if there was Buffy before the stake hit?”  
Doyle was right, and Spike knew it. He squared his shoulders, moved away from the wall and reset his duster.  
“So, what do I do, Bogtrotter?”  
“Be Buffy’s friend,” Doyle said with confidence and a tinge of hope in his eye.  
Spike gave the man a stern look with a slight flash of gold in it.  
“I mean,” Doyle stammered, “Be kind to her. Seek her out as something other than the Slayer. Spend time with her, like you used to with Joyce.”  
“Yeah, right, and get my nose broken, again, BEFORE she stakes me.”  
“Maybe at first, it’ll be a bit harder than that. But I happen to know that right now, this moment, she’s home and exhausted. She just got done with a truly long day and is dealing with quitting her job, the stress of being alive, the mess at the house, everything she is doing to get along.” Doyle paused for a deep breath. “She needs a friend. If that friend can be you, it will change everything.”  
And with that, Doyle faded away, and Spike was back in the all-night market staring at the bottle of Green Spot.  
Lifting the bottle, and grabbing a couple of the Redbreasts to keep it company, Spike walked over to the counter where the cashier had already started a bag with his Weetabix.  
“Bloody awful displays, Pet,” Spike grumbled to the cashier.  
“Not my fault, Dude,” the ball-capped clerk replied, “and I have to be here with them all night. At least this holiday doesn’t come with music.”  
At that, Spike laughed out loud, surprising the clerk so much she stepped back with Spike’s cash in hand.  
“Keep the change, kid. See you next time.”  
And with a last bark of laughter, a lighter, if not happier, Spike went off to see about getting a girl to share a drink on a back porch.


End file.
